My Rotten Teeth

The saga with my teeth began when I was nine.  I vividly remember sitting in the dentist chair as they prepped the instruments for my first filling.  That huge, ugly, silver filling stayed with me for ages.  A crown now graces the cap of that molar.  An expensive crown.

My husband, on the other hand, got his first cavity in his thirties.  He started drinking tea with honey and had four little pinpricks of decay on his back molars.  He was devastated.

Welcome to my world.  Except I live in a more devastating world of decay.  My teeth are riddled with rot.  I brush twice a day and try to remember to floss every night.  I use mouthwash.  My last dentist remarked that it's just genetics.  With that, I resigned to living a life of high dental bills eventually ending with dentures.

Until recently.  My neighbor shared a blog post with me after I casually mentioned the bad news I received at my latest dental appointment (I need two fillings and a CROWN).  It's about healing your teeth.  Skeptical, but overly optimistic, I nearly shoved her to the ground in excitement.  I have a tendency to get physical when my enthusiasm bubbles over.  Seth flinches often when I'm excited. 

Before you disregard me, here's my caveat:  I have not researched this thoroughly.  I am merely a cavity ridden-dentist hating-phobic gal who would rather brush my teeth with clay and eat raw food than see the pointy side of another drill.  If you share the bad genetics that bless my teeth, perhaps you are mentally shoving me and yelling, "No Way! I've got to read about this!"  Here it is:
Healing Your Teeth

I Love That Guy

It's 6 am.  Laying in a cool room I remember that we are vacationing at the beach.  Just Seth and me.  I hear him snoring and know he's still traipsing through the Land of Nod.  If I hold my breath I can barely make out the rushing sound of the waves.  Our room sits on the beach and the anticipation of our last day causes me to slip from the bed.  Peeking onto our balcony, I see the sky is still black inkiness.  The moon is full and bright but remains the only light in the dark sky.  I dwadle a little, trying to let the time pass so Seth can sleep in.  When I can't bear it any longer, I pull back the curtains again and see the thin gray line along the horizon.  Fearing I will miss my last sunrise at the beach, I grab Seth's arm and he jolts awake.

I feel like two year old Elijah, who used to wake us up in the wee hours of the morning with a tug on my arm and exclaim, "Sun's up!"

"The sun is coming, let's hurry!" I urge.

Wordlessly, he dresses and numbly follows me outside to the sand.  He's tired, sleep in his eyes, and the imprint of a pillowcase on his cheek.  Nevertheless, he smiles and makes a goofy remark, punctuated by singing, "I like staying up late and you like waking up early."

I love that night owl who crawls out of bed to watch a cloudy sunrise just for me.

13

A teenager lives in our house.

Writing that gives me a shiver.  Delight and dread.  Watching the transition from child to teen is thrilling.  Around here, that transition has been punctuated with eating, eating, more eating, and occasionally choosing to hang out with adults instead of running amuck with kids.

My sister called me and almost hung up when she heard an unrecognizable, deep voice.  That deep voice and his sudden growth (I'm tenaciously holding one inch over his head) caused him incredible frustration this summer.  We traveled to Connecticut to visit friends and family.  My kids were anticipating loads of squeezing and snuggles with their far flung cousins.  When my 2 year old niece saw Everett, she cried.  When he dared touch her, her lips curled and she wailed.  She adored the girls, tolerated Josiah, and warmed up to Elijah.  Everett...he was too much like a scary, unknown, man for her.  After a week of begging, she finally gave him the coveted hug.  She threw in a snotty kiss and walked away.  Everett, wiping his check, remarked, with a good natured smirk, "Well, that was slimier than I expected." 

I hesitate to make this statement.  But here goes...Thirteen is easier than I expected.  I have enjoyed Everett's company lately.  Loved it. Mostly.  I think he gets life more than ever before.  When I'm flustered, he sees it and gives me a hand.  He's independent in his school work, able to come to me for help or to discuss a point, but doesn't need me to nag him.  He still has his moments, don't dare try to interrupt him in the middle of a good read (or even a mediocre one).  He turns into a roaring lion.  Just like his dad.

But, I figured that guy out years ago.  Since the apple can't fall too far from the tree, I think I might have my 13 year old figured out too.

I might delete this post in a few years to avoid being called a liar.